A Step Forward
by chervilspotatoes
Summary: Sequel to Please Go. John returns to 221B and realizes several things about himself and his relationship with Sherlock.


A Step Forward

It was one thing to keep myself from spiraling out of control when I had my imminent death to look forward to. At least I had done one thing right in my life, and that was to come back for John after Mary shot me. At the tarmac, I thought I could say the words again, that maybe John understood, but right before the words came I couldn't bear to have his rejection being the last thing I remembered of London.

Upon returning, I did not think of Moriarty. He always plagued me, and now it seemed he even held death out of my grasp once again. I was so tired, but I could not sleep. Tired of living, tired of trying, tired of being Sherlock Holmes. I did not investigate Moriarty's return, I did not have the energy to leave 221B. John came, how long afterwards I don't know. I was curled on the couch facing the wall when he came in, stomping up the stairs like I had wronged him once again. He spoke to me, but his words were no different than the John voice in my head, telling me it was selfish of me to stay here wallowing when London needed me. My head supplied 'And what has London ever done for me?' 'Selfish machine. You're such a child, Sherlock,' replied John's voice.

I had come up the stairs with the full intent of throttling Sherlock for taking no interest in Moriarty's return. Didn't Sherlock care that he was back, that the two years he made everyone suffer without him ended up being meaningless, that his greatest obsession was around to be obsessed over again? I had thought he had been maturing and growing up, but he was just like a toddler with his toy-or in this case his victory-taken away.

I came up the stairs and threw open the door to the flat. Sherlock was curled on the couch, oblivious to the world. Maybe he was high, how am I supposed to know what he does. I'm supposed to be his friend, but he never tells me anything. Apparently in his mind he loves me also. I don't know what that's supposed to mean. It couldn't be what everyone else felt as love. Sherlock didn't have feelings like that. It was like I had told Mycroft years ago-'He doesn't feel things that way;' and Mycroft, who took every opportunity to contradict people if possible, didn't even give a halfhearted argument against that.

So yes, I regret to say, I came in to our-his-flat and laid into him. I told him how selfish he was being and that London needed him or people were going to die again and to just get up and do something about it for once. I grasped his shoulder and wrenched him on his back. His eyes had that far away mind palace sheen. He wasn't even listening to me! For other people he would deign to exit his mind palace, but not for me. My wedding was the first time he had entered it with other people besides myself in the vicinity to my knowledge. He was so pliant in his mind palace, I had had him eat many times when he was in there so he wouldn't starve himself to death. Looking at him now, I saw the state of his pajamas was wrinkled and he smelled quite a bit. His face was pale and I put my hand on his forehead. He had a temperature that felt quite high. I cursed to myself and left to get him some water and a straw. Returning, I put the straw between his lips. Thankfully, he started to slowly suck on it. After just a few sips he pushed the straw out of his mouth with his tongue and turned his head away. Setting the water down on the coffee table I turned to leave to get him a blanket but he spoke for the first time since the tarmac that I had heard. "Don't." he rasped, sounding like death warmed over. "Don't what?" I answered. He didn't answer. I pulled a blanket off Sherlock's bed and returned to find tears sliding down his face towards his ears. "Do you hurt? Where does it hurt, Sherlock?" I asked. I had never seen him cry about an injury before, not even getting shot, so this must be pretty bad. "Heart. Broken. Never work again. Didn't want it. He didn't want it." He looked at me. "You didn't want it. Weakling. Freak. Machine."

"All right, let's get you into the bath Sherlock you're hallucinating," I said, quite unnerved by his words. He didn't look like he could walk, so I scooped him into my arms. He looked so paradoxically small and vulnerable, all 6 foreboding feet of his long frame coiled in my arms. With a bit of effort I lifted him off the couch and he burrowed into my neck. "John," he breathed. "Yep it's me," I answered, walking to the bathroom. I set him down on the toilet and began taking off his pajama shirt. He reached up his hand to stop me. "No. You don't want to. No pity, please." "Sherlock you need a bath you reek. And you have a high temperature so I doubt you can do this yourself." His eyes were still glazed and I couldn't help feeling like it wasn't me he was seeing. With his shirt off, I asked, "Are you wearing any pants?" "Yes," he answered. I removed his pajama bottoms and left his pants on and lifted him into the bathtub, which had been filling. I turned off the water and knelt by the tub. I tilted his head forward and gasped. I hadn't seen his back since Buckingham Palace, and it sure hadn't looked like that. Staring at the marks with disbelief I started to shampoo his curls.

Those marks looked like they had been-oh God. Right about the time he came back into my life. I was hit hard with guilt. I had knocked him on his back, and that must have hurt so badly, they would have been healing then. I had attacked him three times right after he had returned from being tortured. He didn't stop me, he should have but he let me attack him. And oh God I had accused him of just having a bit of fun without me there. I didn't know what he had done in those two years, but I never imagined he would have been physically hurt like this. He jumped and I looked at him to see a stream of bubbles trailing down to his eye. Damn fine job you're doing of bathing him, Watson. You let shampoo get into his eye. "I'm sorry Sherlock," I said honestly. I had so much to apologize for, I contemplated as I rinsed the shampoo from his eye and his hair. I conditioned his hair and soaped up my hands, having him lean back so I could wash his chest. I felt my eyes prickle with tears as I saw the mark on his chest, just below his heart, that my wife had put there. It was still quite red and in my mind's eye I could see it bleeding. He was so scarred now, he had been through so much pain that I had not been able to protect him from.

I let my mind wander to where I hardly ever let it go. Sherlock and I were together, and he wasn't half delirious from fever when I washed him. He wasn't wearing his pants to preserve his modesty and he was leaning into my touch. I pushed that away though as it was distracting me from the reality of his back. I washed it tenderly and soaped up his arms and hands, getting between his fingers. I loved his hands. They were so soft and warm (though partly due to fever) and long and strong and gorgeous. I reached for one leg, then the other, getting all the way down to his feet. His feet were much like his hands and I loved them as well. Now was both the best and the worst part-his face. "Close your eyes," I said softly, not wanting to break the intimacy of the moment, even if he was too out of it to realize it. It turned out he was, as he did not close his eyes. I put my hand over them and covered his forehead with soap, rinsing it off gently. I removed my hand from his eyes and explored the planes of his cheeks, including his breathtaking cheekbones that had enthralled me from day one, and his chin. I avoided his lips because otherwise it would have been too much. I was already regretting everything anyone had ever done to hurt him and wanting to keep him safe in my arms forever. I lifted him from the tub and dried him off as best I could, trying not to wander where he would never let me look. I presented him with clean pants and he put them on on autopilot while I turned away. His eyes were still glassy and far away as I dressed him but getting sleepy, so I carried him to bed hoping his fever would break. As much as I joked about having him quiet, I did miss his sharp tongue more than when I was away from him. This shell was so close to being him, but it wasn't him.

That was how I felt when I first heard Mary had lied, but since then I have realized she is nothing like Sherlock. Sherlock would never have done the things she did. I was just running away from Sherlock, away from the feelings I felt could never be requited. I dressed him and placed him in his bed and pulled the sheets over his frame. "Take care Sherlock. I'll be here in the morning." And because he was so out of it and probably would remember nothing of this, I hazarded "I love you." "That's how I know you're not real," he muttered. "John could never love me."

I was floored. Did that pass by him? How? Of all the things to miss, he missed what was most true and vital to my being. "Why would you say that?" "Why would he?" was the succinct answer. He closed his eyes and I felt hot painful tears prick mine. How could I not know, how could I not see? He was my best friend, the love of my life, and I did not know. I thought back to the only time I had told him I loved him before, equating him with Mary was, I had thought, clear enough. I had found it intriguing he had used almost my exact words to tell me he loved me at my wedding. Then the difference struck me. He had used 'love' for both Mary and himself. I had used two verbs-'love' and 'care about'. I hadn't even noticed, but he evidently had and decided, perfectly logically, that 'love' was for Mary and 'care about' was for himself. I had even presented it in that order and he had decided it was intentional.

After all this time, he did not know I loved him more than breathing.

I had failed him.

I remembered how he had looked before the tarmac, curled in on himself and sobbing after I had laughed at him and his love, and hated myself. He gives you the entirety of himself and you smash it and leave him there. It was you who broke his heart. 'I expect nothing of you,' he had said. He was willing to pledge himself to me and get nothing in return. He loved me more perfectly than I had ever loved him. I had let my feelings bitter into resentment and blindness. I left his room and lay on the couch where he had been. It smelled of him and I pressed my nose into the cushion and let the tears stream from my eyes.

I opened my eyes to the sound of my phone pinging in my pocket. I unlocked it to find a text from Mary inquiring if I was at 221B. In all the events of last night she had not even crossed my mind. Nor had my daughter. I answered Yes might be home late and walked to Sherlock's door. He looked agitated even in sleep. I put my hand on his forehead to find it not fevered. Well that was a great plus. His eyes fluttered open at my touch, looking sleepy and soft for one instant before hardening. He jerked back from my hand, which stung my heart a little. "You had a fever. I stayed here to make sure you were okay." "And bathed me, evidently. Leave." He turned his back to me and I asked, "Care for a back massage?"

He turned to me in a fury and lashed out, "So you do feel sorry for the little freak who got whipped. Well it wouldn't be the first time someone has hurt me who got the chance. I'm fine now you can leave." "I'm sorry," I said simply, hearing the barb in his voice to how I had hurt him, as had many others. "I want to make it up to you."

The fight seemed to leave him and he inquired "On or off?" "Either," I answered. If he was uncomfortable being shirtless and exposed I wasn't going to pressure him into anything. He lifted the shirt over his head and I did the same to mine. The side of his mouth quirked up and he positioned himself on his belly. There were so many marks. I ran my fingers gently over his shoulderblades and his body went slack into the sheets. I was slapped in the face by his trust. Never mind that we were both shirtless, his trust was written in block letters over the entire situation. "I'll be right back, I just need oil," I said, regretting leaving him but not going to risk chafing his skin. Returning with some olive oil, I poured some onto my hands and went for his shoulderblades again. I massaged the tightness from his muscles, gradually working my way down his back. Around the middle of it I wondered if he would let me touch his neck. At the first touch of my fingers on the back of his neck he leaned his head forward and reached his hands behind his head, pushing his curls off his neck and giving me free range of the entire area.

I did start to cry then, silently. I rubbed his neck and tried to return to his back but before I could a tear splashed on one of his ribs. He moved his hands from his curls and asked, incredulous, "Are you crying?" He turned a little to look at me and I nodded, wiping my eyes with my wrists. His eyes looked so lost and something broke inside me, letting free a slew of feelings. "You got hurt so much, and I didn't protect you, and you trust me so much, and I don't deserve you. I-I love you Sherlock." His eyes shuttered and dropped, with a small "You're a married man, I can't let you say such things," issuing from his perfect lips.

I decided to go with it. "I forgot she existed until she texted me this morning. All last night I was thinking of you. And I forgot about her again until just now. All that is ever on my mind is you." "Then why did you marry her? And what of your daughter?" "Joint custody. And because I'm an idiot." I waited for his verdict. He looked at me with complicated emotions swirling through his eyes and says "Time. Will you give me time?"

"Of course. As much as you need. Not just ten seconds," I answered. So I picked up my stuff, put on my shirt, and left, closing the door behind me and hoping Sherlock would accept me back in his life. No matter his decision, I was getting the divorce papers that day.


End file.
